


The Frayed Ends of Sanity

by messageredacted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean, in the aftermath of Mystery Spot, find a possible way to get Dean out of his deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frayed Ends of Sanity

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Mystery Spot and before Jus in Bello.
> 
> Originally written 11 May 2008.

Sam does not sleep on that second Wednesday night. He sits in the armchair in the corner of the room and watches Dean sleep, watches that rise and fall of his chest and waits. At midnight he checks the clock and nothing happens, and he keep watching. At three, he nearly drifts off, but catches himself.

At eight, Dean rolls over in bed and Sam eyes him, gauging the distance between the bed and the floor. Dean doesn’t fall. Instead he rubs his face, rolls over again and sits up.

“Dude. You look like shit.”

Sam says nothing, just studies Dean for rashes, sores, cuts. The flesh-eating virus can get into the body with just a paper-cut. Sam knows his intimately.

“Did you sleep?” Dean asks, looking uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Wanna go get some breakfast?”

“Hell yeah.” Dean kicks off the sheets and crawls out of bed. “So, you find out any more about Dexter Hasselback in all your—” he waves a dismissive hand, “—Tuesdays?”

“There’s nothing we can do about him,” Sam says shortly, watching Dean disappear into the bathroom. The door starts to shut. “Hey, could you, uh, leave that open?”

There is a pause and then the door shuts firmly. Sam hears the lock click. He gets up and goes over to the door, pressing his forehead against it. If he needs to, he could probably kick it in. It’s just cheap hollow core.

“What do you mean, nothing we can do? We barely even tried,” Dean shouts out to Sam. Piss tinkles into the bowl. “We know it was the Trickster. We stopped him before.”

“No, Dean, we didn’t,” Sam says softly. He hears the flow of urine hesitate as Dean realizes how close he is.

“So you already tried?” The toilet flushes and water runs in the sink.

“Yes.”

“Great. Well that sucks.” Dean opens the door and Sam stumbles. Dean stares at him, toothbrush in his mouth.

“Careful with that toothbrush,” Sam mutters.

“You’re a freak,” Dean says thickly around a mouthful of toothpaste. He leans over the sink and spits. “Library, then? We can go hunting for a hunt?”

“I’ve got one already,” Sam says immediately. “Vampire nest.”

##

The warehouse is dark and abandoned.

Dean catches Sam’s eyes from across the room and raises his eyebrow. Sam shakes his head in annoyance and strains to hear something, anything.

The vampires are gone.

In fact, they were never there to begin with. Sam is beginning to realize that something is not entirely right here. He sighs and nods to Dean.

“So what the hell are we doing here then?” Dean hisses.

Sam shakes his head. “I must have gotten the info wrong. I’ll call Bobby.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Dean says in disgust. He keeps his gun out, however. “I could use a beer.”

“We should get a hotel,” Sam says with a sigh. As they head for the door, he pulls out his cell phone.

Bobby answers after four rings. “Yeah?”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.” Bobby sighs. “Just buried in my books.”

“Anything good?”

“Maybe… What’s up?”

“Do you know of any vampire nest in Austin?”

“Austin?” There’s a pause and the sound of some papers shuffling. “I don’t think so. Not that I’ve heard of, anyway.”

“What about a demon thing in Death Valley?”

“No… can’t say that I have. Why?”

“Just…heard some rumors. Thanks, Bobby.”

“No problem.” Bobby says, sounding distracted. “I can look into it…although I’ve got a thing I’m working on at the moment. It’ll be a week or so.”

“A thing? Need help?”

“Nah. It’s just a person I gotta see. But I’ll let you know if I come across anything.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, hanging up.

They reach the Impala. Dean holds out his hand. “Keys?”

“I’m driving,” Sam says automatically.

“Come on. I’m not going to get in any accidents,” Dean says. “Give me the fucking keys.”

“No.” Sam unlocks the car and gets into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

Dean makes a sound of disgust and gets in the car. “Seriously dude. Such a freak.”

“Put on your seatbelt,” Sam reminds him. He puts on his own because he’s seen what happens when someone goes through a windshield. It isn’t pretty.

“Could really go for a beer,” Dean mutters as they ease their way back into town.

“Not tonight.”

“I wasn’t asking your permission.”

“Do you know what things can get into those beer bottles, Dean? Some pretty nasty stuff.”

“That’s a myth.” Dean studies Sam for a second, then ventures, “Seriously? Death by beer?”

Sam nods once, teeth clenched.

##

Dean stretches, tipping his chair back on two legs. “Nothing here,” he says.

Sam’s eyes snap to him as the chair creaks. Dean can see him struggle to turn his expression into something casual.

“Could you not do that? You might break the chair.”

“Oh no,” Dean says, deadpan. He leans the chair back farther. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

He can see Sam’s pupils widening as Sam visibly debates physically dragging Dean off the chair. Dean lets it go another second, then drops back down to four legs. Sam relaxes.

“Nothing here either,” Sam says, turning back to his laptop screen. “Nothing that jumps out at me, anyway.”

“Good, ’cause seriously dude.” Dean eyes him. “If something jumped out at you right now? I’d have to pry you off the ceiling.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not jumpy.”

Dean pushes his chair back on two legs again. Sam tenses.

“Not at all,” Dean drawls.

##

The diner has mirrored walls and a display case full of cakes at the front. The waitress, an older, slightly overweight woman in sneakers and a pink striped uniform brings them laminated menus. Dean winks at her and Sam immediately opens his laptop again, searching for a wireless network.

Dean picks up the menu and studies it with a jaded eye. “So, what do you think: turkey club? Potentially lethal?”

Sam, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen, ignores him. Dean smirks.

“You didn’t get enough of your research done at the library?”

“Nope,” Sam mumbles.

Dean’s face suddenly flattens into annoyance and he leans his elbows on the table. “You don’t have to hide it from me anymore. I’m all for getting me out of hell, okay?”

Sam doesn’t respond. His eyes are focused on the screen with a look of such intense interest that Dean grabs the laptop and turns it around.

“Dean…” Sam exclaims but Dean is already reading it, his eyebrows climbing. Sam gets out of his seat and slides into the bench with Dean to continue reading.

 _Dr. Beatrice Gusteau_  
Contract Law  
Specializing in contractual obligations and tarot readings.

“Contract law and tarot readings? That’s an odd mix.” Dean smirks at Sam but he is beginning to feel a curl of something in his stomach, something like excitement and maybe some dread.

“No, Dean,” Sam breathes. “This is it. This is exactly what we have been looking for.”

“A lawyer?”

“A paranormal lawyer.”

“Maybe she’s just a regular lawyer who does readings on the side.”

“And she advertises for both in the same place? Dean. This is it.”

“Well, I guess if anyone knows how to get out of a demonic contract, a lawyer would, huh?” Dean’s laugh betrays his unease. “What does she, you know…charge? If she wants firstborn children, she can have yours.”

“Five hundred dollars an hour,” Sam says, scrolling down the page. “And another five hundred up front. Cash.” He raises his eyes to look at Dean. “I don’t care how much it costs. We’re going to do it.”

##

They hit nearly every pool hall and bar on their trip back east, as the skies gray and the terrain gets rockier. It isn’t really enough, and sleeping in the car and eating nothing but gas station burritos only saves them a little more money. Dean fixates solely on picking out tapes that he knows Sam hates. Partway through Missouri, Sam relents and lets Dean drive. Despite that, Sam still does not sleep, fixing his burning eyes on the road ahead of them.

##

Grant, Massachusetts was an industrial city before most of the industry left for greener pastures. Now it’s tired and a little run down, with more than one empty storefront in the city center.

It’s nearing one a.m. when they arrive. There is only a car or two going through the center of town.

“What do you think?” Dean says as they wait at a red light. “Try and find a motel?”

Sam stretches and sits up straight. “We’ve got barely enough money for two hours with her.”

They find an old factory building with most of the windows boarded up and no lights on inside. Dean continues on until he finds a supermarket parking lot to park in, and then they get out, hefting their bags. They start back for the factory without a word.

It isn’t terribly difficult to get in. The padlock on the door is easily picked, and even though there is a lot of trash from previous vagrants inside, there is no one there at the moment. The air is cold and still.

“Fucking cold,” Dean mutters, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. There’s a long room with old machines that Dean doesn’t recognize. There is a bathroom with toilets, brown and dry, and a cracked mirror over a sink. There’s also a small break room with a table, one legless chair, and a broken microwave. The window is still intact with a metal grate bolted outside, so it’s marginally warmer than the other rooms. Sam finds a spot in the corner of the room and sits down. He raises his eyes to look at Dean. Dean doesn’t need an interpretation. If there was one topic of conversation they didn’t cover on the entire drive there, it was whether this was going to work.

##

“Dean, come on.”

Sam impatiently whacks Dean on the foot. Dean mumbles something and rolls over.

Sam whacks him again. “Dean. Wake up.”

“Time is it?” Dean slurs, his face buried in the crook of his elbow.

“It’s ten thirty. We have to go, Dean. I’ve already called and made an appointment with Dr. Gusteau. We only have an hour.”

Dean rubs his face and rolls onto his back. “Ten thirty?”

“Yes. I have donuts.”

Dean groans and sits up. It isn’t any warmer in the morning, and the light outside the boarded windows is thin and gray.

Sam makes a curt gesture towards a paper coffee cup and crumpled bag of donuts. “The coffee’s probably cold.”

“What time did you wake up?” Dean asks, his voice still sleep-slurred, as he takes a Boston crème out of the bag.

Sam shrugs. “A while ago. Look, we’ve got eight hundred dollars. We can cover her down payment, but we’re going to have to go hustle some money tonight.”

Dean shoves the entire donut into his mouth and chews. Sam watches intently. Dean eyes him, then swallows.

“Razor blades in my donuts?”

“You choked on a sausage.”

Dean snorts. “That’s…dirty.” He paws through the bag for another donut.

“Let’s go.” Sam rises to his feet. “I don’t want to be late.”

“I need a shower,” Dean mumbles, taking the bag of donuts with him.

##

Dr. Gusteau lives only a few blocks away, so they walk to save gas. Sam feels as if his feet know the way. He wants this so badly that he knows intuitively where to go. It’s in a building that used to be a factory and has since been converted to apartments. There is a small fenced-in parking lot at the back.

There is a row of buttons inside the door, and one of them reads B. Gusteau. Sam presses the button.

“Yes?” says a voice through the intercom.

“It’s Sam Winchester. We have an appointment for ten thirty.”

The door clicks and Dean pulls it open. They step inside.

A door opens at the top of a flight of stairs. A thin white woman steps into the hallway and looks down at them.

“Dr. Gusteau?” Sam says.

The woman nods once and then disappears back inside. Sam exchanges a glance with Dean and then starts to climb the stairs.

The room they step into is a living room, completely cluttered with junk. The walls are hung with cheap prints of birds and flowers. A needlepoint sign hangs on the wall that says Home Sweet Home. Dried flowers sit in dusty vases or hang in bunches from the ceiling. The woman has sat back down at a table that is strewn with fresh flowers. She picks up a paintbrush and begins painting white glue onto a petal.

“So, uh, you said on the phone that you could help us,” Sam says awkwardly, looking around. This is not the house of someone who makes five hundred dollars an hour. He hears Dean clear his throat but doesn’t look at him.

The woman looks up from the flower in her hands and studies first Sam, then Dean. She has watery gray eyes and feathery blond hair and a long, thin nose.

“I charge five hundred dollars up front,” she says after a long pause.

Dean rummages in his pocket and takes out his wallet. He hands the wad of bills to Sam, who puts them on the table. She puts down the flower, takes the cash, and counts it carefully, then squirrels it away somewhere in her pocket and picks up the flower again.

“Dean Winchester. Sold his soul to the Devil. I hope it was worth it.”

Sam looks at Dean, who is looking uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “It was.”

“You can’t get something for nothing,” says the woman. “Are you going to give back what you got in return?”

“No,” Dean says flatly.

The woman paints another petal, studying the flower with intense concentration. “Are you willing to give back something of equal value?”

Dean’s gaze flicks to Sam. “I don’t think there is anything of equal value.”

She rolls her eyes. “How cute. Humor me.”

Dean lifts his chin and stares at the woman. “They brought Sam back from the dead for me.”

“For how long?”

“Uh. There wasn’t a time limit.”

The woman seems to consider this for a long time. Finally she says, “It will take a few days for me to do some research and talk to the parties involved. I will bill you when I’m done. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.” She puts down the flower and paintbrush and stands up. “In the meantime…” She disappears down a hall.

They wait. After two minutes she returns, holding two leather amulets on cords. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Dean asks, taking one of the amulets and studying out.

“Protection.”

They both stare at her, and for the first time, she smiles.

“You made a deal with the devil, Dean, and now you’re trying to get out of it. The devil doesn’t like that.”

##

The appointment is over and they are left, suddenly, at loose ends. It’s too early for a bar, so instead they go to the supermarket where the car is parked and buy a couple cans of sardines and a loaf of bread. They sit in the car and make sandwiches.

“What do you think of all this?” Sam asks Dean around a mouthful of sardine. Dean shrugs.

“I don’t know what to think.”

“If you get out of your deal…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says shortly. Sam subsides into silence. Dean finishes his sandwich, crawls into the back seat and falls asleep.

##

At five they find their way to a bar near the factory. It’s dark, dingy and windowless. Dean starts up a game of pool with a couple other guys. Sam finds a dark booth and nurses a beer, sitting with his laptop. There isn’t any wireless network but he uses the outlet to juice up his laptop because the factory has no electricity.

Sam keeps one eye on Dean in case the game turns ugly and takes the time to research the demon thing in Death Valley and the vampire nest in Austin. In the alternate universe of his first Wednesday, he took care of some hunts, and now in his second Wednesday they have been left undone. He wonders briefly if the hunts really exist. If they don’t, that means that the entire first Wednesday was in his head, like Dean’s alternate universe when the djinn got to him. Dean never died, and Sam never became that person who would drain a man of his blood just to get a chance to bring Dean back. If the hunts do exist…

Sam is afraid to sleep, for fear that he will wake up as that other Sam, the desperate one. He will wake up with Asia singing and Dean tying his shoes and grinning his way to a new and inventive death. Sam’s first Wednesday was erased, and he doesn’t want the same to happen to his second Wednesday.

Voices rise from the pool table. Another man is up in Dean’s face, shouting. The man is bigger than Dean and looks a lot meaner, but Dean isn’t backing down. Sam flips his laptop closed and rises to his feet.

“You little cheating shit,” growls the man. “Give me my fucking money back.”

“I won, asshole. Don’t blame me if you can’t play for shit.”

The man shoves Dean, and Dean shoves back, and then Sam is between the two of them, pushing them apart.

“Enough!” Sam shouts. He towers several inches over the man and he uses every inch of that height. “You lost. Get over it.”

“You his girlfriend?” sneers the man.

“I’m his brother,” Sam growls. The man seems to take in Sam’s fury and his extra height, and then he backs off.

“Don’t let me see your face in here again,” the man snarls to Dean, and then slinks back to the bar, where a couple buddies of his are laughing.

Dean has his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t need to you to end my fights,” he says coldly.

“Then don’t start them,” Sam snaps back. He stalks over to the booth and packs up his laptop. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

##

The walk back to the factory is silent. After a few minutes, Sam sighs.

“How much money did you make?”

“Seventy five,” Dean says.

“I think we’re going to have to borrow money from someone.”

“Who?”

Sam takes out his cell phone and dials Bobby. The phone rings and rings.

##

Dean dreams.

In his dream, he’s back in the bar. Sam is in one of the booths but Dean can’t see him. He’s playing a game of pool, but the rules keep changing and he can’t keep up.

 _You can’t win, Dean,_ says his opponent.

A woman is singing on the jukebox across the room. Dean doesn’t know the song but he decides he likes it.

 _I know how this is going to end,_ his opponent continues. _Do you?_

Dean knows he’s losing and stands there, staring at the pool table, trying to figure out where he went wrong. The opponent makes a brilliant move. Everyone applauds. Dean hadn’t realized there was an audience. He glances up, and everyone stares back at him with beetle black eyes.

##

Sam can’t sleep, so he paces, blowing on his hands to warm them. His face is tight with the cold and his lungs hurt. Dean is sleeping deeply in the corner of the room. The sun is just beginning to rise, theoretically—at least, the thick black sky is turning a thick gray. Even that minimal light is sending shards of pain into Sam’s head through his eyeballs. He turns his eyes away and continues to pace.

When he just can’t take it anymore, he leaves Dean sleeping and walks to the supermarket. The air outside the factory is just as cold as inside, except it has a breeze. Sam shoves his hands deep in his pockets. When this is over, he is going to buy the biggest, thickest winter coat in existence, no matter the cost. He fantasizes about hot showers all the way to the store.

He picks out pastries from the day-old shelf and eats one of them on his way back to the factory, devouring it ravenously. When he gets back to the factory, Dean is still sleeping.

He shakes Dean’s arm gently. “Dean?”

Dean jerks awake, one hand grasping under his coat. He blinks at Sam, mouth open, breathing heavily.

“It’s just me,” Sam says quickly, hands up. Dean stares at him

“You scared me,” he says after a moment. He slumps back to the floor, catching his breath.

Sam holds the pastry bag out to him. “I have breakfast.”

Dean takes it. “Thanks.”

Sam watches, his mouth watering, as Dean eats the pastry. He wants another pastry badly, but he keeps thinking: _we have to save money. We have to pay Dr. Gusteau._

“What are we going to do today?” Dean asks, finishing the pastry. Sam sits back on his heels.

“I guess we should look for other bars,” he says. “And other ways of making money. Just drive around.”

“At least the Impala has heat,” Dean mutters.

##

Grant sprawls under their wheels. It’s a smallish city, with a population of thirty thousand. Dean drives, his face blank. Sam rests one elbow on the door and splays his fingers over his eyes, blocking out the searing white of the sky. He hasn’t slept in days. Now he’s microsleeping, sliding into sleep and jerking back awake with such frequency that the world seems to flicker around him like a strobe light.

They have the heat up all the way. Dean flexes his hands on the steering wheel.

“Shitty town,” he says.

“Hmm,” Sam says. Warm air blows into his face from the vents.

“We’re going to have to get gas soon.”

“We should…” Sam mumbles, and then loses track of the sentence. He blinks and picks it up again. “…Walk more.”

“It’s too fucking cold,” Dean says. Sam watches the muscles in his neck move as he speaks. Dean looks pale and tired, although why he’s so tired, Sam doesn’t know. He’s certainly been sleeping enough. Unlike Sam.

“We need money.”

Dean sighs. “Sam, how much are we going to owe her when this is over? Ten thousand dollars? Twenty? You know how many games of pool that is?”

“We’ll get a loan from someone. We’ll find a way.” Sam stretches and tries to open his eyes wide. Dean yawns. The air in the Impala is thick and warm and relaxing. Sam rests his head on the window and closes his eyes.

“Turn up the radio,” Dean mumbles.

“The radio is off,” Sam says, opening his eyes. “Dean—Dean!”

The car is drifting across the lines, and a car swerves out of the way, horn blaring. Sam wrenches the wheel to the right as Dean flounders, confused. Tires howl and they veer in the other direction.

“Brakes, Dean!” Sam shouts. Dean hits the brakes and the car skids to a stop, bumping up onto the sidewalk. Dean stares straight ahead, his eyes wide, his mouth working.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Sam says.

“What happened?” Dean stares at Sam in utter confusion.

“You fell asleep.”

“I did?”

The snarl of traffic is unraveling around them as cars begin moving again. Sam stares out the window as angry drivers peer in at them.

“Let’s get out of here. Let me drive.”

“No. You were falling asleep too,” Deans says. He puts on his blinker and watches the traffic with deliberate care before pulling onto the street.

“Dean…”

“Just watch me. Don’t let me fall asleep.”

Sam sits tense in his seat as they drive. The fear has buzzed him awake again and he feels wide-awake for the first time in days. Everything is clear and sharply delineated around them.

Up ahead, Sam spots a sign for the public library. “Let’s stop here,” he says. Dean pulls into the parking lot.

The public library is a monumental stone building with a modern addition tacked on the back. Skylights let more gray light into the main foyer. They climb the stairs to the third floor and wind through the stacks to an empty carrel. It’s warm in here. Sam puts his laptop down on a carrel.

Dean sits on the other side of the carrel and pillows his face in his arms. “Wake me when you’re done,” he mumbles. Sam nods and opens his laptop.

##

After a few hours, Sam has found a frustrating lack of the supernatural in Grant. There is an abnormally high cancer rate, but that’s likely from all the factories that used to spew their chemicals into the wetlands in the area. No mysterious disappearances, or at least no more than average. One murderous cult but that was years ago, and the deaths of the children were apparently entirely human-induced. The suicide rate is perfectly average. Sam scrolls through obituaries and nothing catches his eye, until he happens to glance at a small article on a suicide from a year ago. The name is oddly familiar.

“Dean,” Sam hisses. He stands up and leans over the back of the carrel, poking at Dean. “Wake up.”

“Hmmm?” Dean lifts his head, blinking sleepily.

“Do you know a David Grandis?”

Dean yawns and continues to blink at Sam. “David…?”

“Grandis? Is that name familiar to you?”

A slow shrug. “It sounds a little familiar, I guess…”

Frustrated, Sam sits down at his laptop again and stares at the screen. The suicide was in town, but the man is not local.

Dean’s face appears over the edge of the carrel. “Wasn’t he a hunter? I think Dad might have mentioned the name once.”

“A hunter.” Sam chews on his lower lip. “What was he hunting?”

Dean shrugs and disappears again. Sam sits up straight. Of course, if there are any suicides in town that aren’t local people, they won’t be in the suicide rate or in the obituaries. Sam starts a new search.

##

Tonight’s bar is a little bigger but has the usual bar things—pool table, juke box, dart board, and dark quiet men hanging over drinks. Sam and Dean get a booth and both of them nurse beers, despite Sam’s misgivings. Sam is so tired that he knows the beer will go straight to his head. Dean downs half of his, then cranes his neck to see the pool table. Someone is setting up a game.

“No fights this time,” Sam says, rolling his bottle between his palms. “I’m too tired to break up a fight.”

“I don’t need your help.” Dean slides out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Sam watches him saunter over to the pool table and start talking to the two men. After a minute, they start a game.

Putting the beer bottle down on the table, Sam rests his chin in one hand and closes his eyes. He opens them again when his head jerks sideways and he realizes he briefly fell asleep.

He must have been asleep for longer than he thought because the game is much further along. To keep himself awake, Sam gets up and wanders over.

Dean is staring at the table with a confused look on his face. His opponent turns to laugh with a buddy of his and Sam realizes that Dean is losing spectacularly. The man casually knocks another ball into a pocket and his buddy claps laconically, shooting Sam a smirk. Dean looks up and stares straight at Sam, his eyes blank with fear. With a shout, he jerks backward, one hand shoving into his coat. Sam knows in an instant that Dean is going for his gun, and although he doesn’t know what is going on, he flings himself at Dean and tackles him to the floor.

Dean writhes like a snake underneath Sam, his eyes blank, fighting for his gun. Sam snaps his elbow against Dean’s wrist and Dean lets out a sound.

“Dean!” Sam shouts. “Dean, stop it!”

Dean twists, jerking a knee up to Sam’s groin. Sam manages to block the move at the last second but Dean gets free again and the gun is clenched in his hand. Sam hears the man at the pool table make a sound of shock and then Sam shouts “Dean, wake up!” and Dean stops.

They blink at each other.

“Dean,” Sam says softly. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers.

“Give me the gun.”

Dean reverses his grip on the gun and hands it to Sam. Sam shoves it in the waistband of his pants and gets off of Dean, getting to his feet. He holds out a hand and helps Dean up.

The men at the pool table stare at the two of them.

“What the fuck was that about?” one of the men asks, spooked.

Sam just shakes his head. “Nothing.” He looks at Dean. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Um,” says Dean. His gaze skitters between the two other men as he tries to gather his bravado. “Best two out of three?”

“Bite me,” says his opponent.

“How much did you lose?” Sam asks him.

Dean ignores him. “Come on. Give me a chance to win it back.”

“How about you get the fuck out of here right now, and we won’t call the police,” says his opponent’s friend.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Sam says. Dean nods dully and lets Sam pull him from the room.

Outside, the night air is a physical slap to the face. They start walking for the car.

“How much did you lose, Dean?”

Dean seems to debate his answer before he admits, “Three hundred.”

Sam stops walking. “What?”

“Let’s get out of here. I’m tired.”

“Dean, that’s everything we had.”

Dean shrugs, still walking to the car. Sam catches up to him.

“Dean. What the fuck happened in there?”

“I don’t know.” Dean turns to face him, looking intent. “Honestly.”

“Were you going to shoot me?”

Dean’s eyes slide away. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Who did you think I was?”

“I don’t know who you were,” Dean snaps. “I was dreaming, okay? Give it a rest.”

“Dean, you were _playing pool in your sleep_. There is something going on here. The suicide rate for out-of-towners is nearly double what it is for locals here, and I know at least two people on that list were hunters. We have to be careful.”

“Well I wasn’t going to shoot _myself_ , was I? Look, I’m just tired.”

Sam unlocks the Impala and climbs into the driver’s seat. Dean slumps heavily into the passenger’s seat.

“You shouldn’t be this tired. You’re sleeping all the time.”

“And you’re not sleeping at all!” Dean glares at him. “Should we talk about that? You haven’t slept for days, Sam. That’s not healthy.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Sam silently starts the car. Dean snorts but doesn’t say anything else.

##

The factory is silent and cold. The air is still, as if it has been frozen in time since they left in the morning. Dean leads the way to the break room, his head down, regretting the loss of heat from the car but already looking forward to his spot on the floor where he can stretch out and sleep. Sam follows.

Dean immediately sits in his usual corner, wrapping his jacket tightly around himself. He looks up at Sam, then down and away.

“Sorry about losing the money. I guess we have to start over.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says hoarsely. “We’ll find a way.”

Dean rests his head on one arm on the floor. He doesn’t even have time to miss a real bed—he is asleep immediately.

A woman is singing on the jukebox in the corner. His opponent smiles at him.

 _Best two out of three?_ Dean says to him, and the opponent’s grin widens.

 _Double or nothing,_ the opponent replies.

They begin. Dean knows that he can’t afford to lose, but his fingers are too cold to hold the pool cue. The singing in the jukebox distracts him. He listens to the song and then realizes that he’s losing again.

The opponent makes a brilliant move and someone begins applauding. Dean looks up and sees Sam standing there, smirking at him, his eyes beetle black.

 _It’s going to come down between you and a million innocents, and he’s going to sacrifice them all to save you,_ his opponent says. _It’s them or you, Dean._ Dean looks at him. The opponent is offering him a gun. He reaches out and takes it.

Sam applauds. _Nice move_ , he says. Dean presses the barrel of the gun underneath his own chin.

##

Sam is pacing when he hears a bag unzip across the room. He turns and sees Dean on his hands and knees, rummaging through the bag.

“What are you looking for?” Sam asks.

The gun glints as Dean presses the barrel up underneath his own chin.

“Dean, no—” Sam is across the room in two steps, grabbing Dean’s wrist and forcing it away. The sound is loud and time stops, and then Dean is limp and Sam is staring at the hole in the wall next to them.

“The fuck?” Dean gasps.

Sam yanks the gun out of Dean’s hand and grabs the bag. He shoves the gun into the bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“Up. We’re getting out of here.”

“Where?”

Sam starts out of the room and Dean follows. “The most recent suicide lived in Vermont. We can make it in a few hours, get some sleep in an actual motel, and see what the hell is going on here.”

It doesn’t seem as if anyone has heard the gunshot, because even though the police station is just down the street, no one seems to be stirring. Sam urges Dean to walk faster as they make their way to the supermarket parking lot.

“What were you dreaming about?” Sam asks him as they get into the car.

Dean shakes his head.

“Dammit, Dean, tell me!” Sam slaps the dashboard with the palm of his hand and Dean jumps.

“It was just a dream. I was playing pool. You were there. There was this song…” Dean’s eyes go distant.

“And then you shot yourself?”

“Well no, I… The guy handed me a gun, and I just…” Dean focuses on Sam and shrugs. “I just shot myself. It was a dream. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“It couldn’t have been just a dream. Something—the factory, maybe, or this town. It’s affecting us. We need to get out of here and find out what’s going on before…before something happens.” Sam accelerates out of the parking lot. “Do you have any weapons on you right now?”

“A knife. In my shoe.”

Sam holds out a hand. “Give me everything.”

Dean wiggles the knife out of his boot and then takes a second one out of his back pocket. He hands them wordlessly to Sam, who puts them in his own pocket.

“What were you dreaming about when we were at the bar?” Sam asks.

“Same thing.”

“Were you going to shoot yourself?”

“No.”

“You were going to shoot me.”

“Yes,” Dean says shortly.

“Because you thought I was someone else.”

Dean does not reply.

“But I was in your dream tonight.”

“The dream isn’t important.”

Sam slows for a stop sign but doesn’t stop completely. “Of course it’s important. Did you have the dream any other time?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Was it all the same? The bar? The pool? Me?”

“You weren’t in it the first time.”

Sam eyes him. “You didn’t try to shoot anyone that time, either, did you?”

“No, but….” Dean hesitates. “The first time, you weren’t there. There were a lot of people there instead. Demons. And the second time…”

“I was a demon,” Sam finishes for him.

“Yes.”

“There’s a rosary in the trunk, if you want to make sure,” Sam says softly.

“I know you’re not possessed,” Dean says. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“I’m trying,” Sam says with gritted teeth.

“What do you mean, you’re—” Dean twists in his seat. “Dude, you just missed the highway.”

“I know.” Sam pulls over to the side of the road, waits for a break in the traffic, and turns around. “That’s the second time.”

“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Dean asks dubiously.

“I’m sure.”

The Impala sails past the on-ramp for the third time. Sam pulls over again.

“Seriously, I’m awake. I can drive.”

“You are not falling asleep at the wheel again!” Sam swings the car around again. “We’re getting on this goddamn highway.

The Impala slows to a crawl and they approach the ramp again. Slowly, so slowly, they creep towards the ramp, and then turn and watched the ramp as they creep slowly past and continue down the road.

“My turn!” Dean says, unbuckling his seat belt. “Get out.”

Sam pulls over and they switch seats. Dean pulls the car around and they approach the ramp at a decent speed.

“It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?” Sam mutters as they watch the ramp go by.

“Shut up,” says Dean.

He tries three more times before he pulls the car to the side of the road and stops for good. He opens his mouth to say something and then just sighs.

“It’s the Trickster,” Sam says, slumped against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I thought he had his fun.”

Sam’s gaze is steely. “I don’t think he’s ever finished with us.”

“Well,” Dean adds philosophically, “You did try to kill him.”

Sam turns his gaze to Dean and says nothing.

“Maybe we should call Bobby?”

Silently, Sam digs out his cell phone.

##

Bobby answers after four rings. His voice sounds exhausted. “What?”

“Bobby, it’s Sam.”

Bobby sighs. “I’m sorry, Sam, I haven’t had a time to look into those hunts for you.”

“The Trickster is after us again,” Sam interrupts impatiently.

“I thought we killed him.”

Sam hesitates, realizing that in this Wednesday, he never talked to Bobby about the Trickster. Finally he says, “No, Bobby, we didn’t. He was messing with us a few days ago and now he has us again. He won’t let us leave town. Do you know of any…summoning spells?”

Bobby sounds marginally more awake. “For the Trickster? The Trickster’s a _god_ , Sam. Anything to summon him would be pretty major. I’d have to look into it…”

Sam clears his throat. “Uh, I think I’ve heard about something involving a gallon of fresh human blood.”

“Well, human sacrifice is big enough,” Bobby admits reluctantly. “You’re not thinking about doing it, though…are you?”

Sam hesitates.

“Where are you stuck?” Bobby asks after a long, uncomfortable pause.

“We’re in Grant, Massachusetts.”

Silence.

“It’s on the border with Rhode Island,” Sam adds.

“I know where Grant is. I’m in Grant right now.”

“What are you doing in Grant?”

Next to Sam, Dean perks up, raising his eyebrows.

“I just had to see someone about something. Where are you?”

“We’re by the entrance to I-95 on Main Street.”

Bobby sighs. “I’m only five minutes away. Give me a little while to get dressed.” Bobby hangs up.

“So?” Dean asks immediately. “What’s he doing in Grant?”

“He didn’t say.” Sam let his head drop back against the window. “He’ll be here soon.”

Dean turns off the car and the engine ticks as it cools. Sam finds his eyes sagging shut, and behind his eyelids he can see Dean’s head rocking back with the blast of the gun under his chin. He jerks his eyes open again and tries to focus on the headlights of the cars sliding past. In all of his Tuesdays, Dean never tried to do himself in. This is a new, cruel twist. There must be some way to kill a god.

Dean murmurs something and Sam sits up, shaking him awake.

“You can’t sleep,” he whispers. “Wake up.”

Dean sighs and opens his eyes. “I’m fucking tired.”

“There are handcuffs in the trunk.”

“Kinky.”

“If you want to sleep, we’ll have to put them on you, so you don’t go for the guns.”

Dean seems to sag in the seat, then nods. “Okay.”

Sam slides out of the car and goes to the trunk, opening it. Dean gets out of the driver’s seat and climbs into the back seat. Sam takes the handcuffs and hands them to Dean, watching carefully as Dean cuffs one wrist to the door handle, then stretches out on the seat, his eyes sinking shut.

Sam watches Dean sleep until headlights shine into the car and Bobby pulls up behind them. Sam gets out to greet him. Bobby’s smile is genuine but tired, and the skin on his face sags as if he has aged ten years since they last saw him.

“Where’s Dean?” Bobby asks, giving Sam a hug.

“Sleeping.” Sam gestures to the Impala. “That’s part of the problem.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Sam.”

Sam tells him everything: the one hundred Tuesdays. The first Wednesday and the second Wednesday. He finds himself leaving out the part that Bobby played in the first Wednesday; he can’t bring himself to explain the monster he became.

“And now you’re stuck in Grant?”

Sam spreads his hands. “He’s sleeping all the time, Bobby. He fell asleep while driving. He fell asleep while playing pool. And every time he does, he goes for his gun.”

“But you’re sleeping fine?”

Sam sighs. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Dean dying. I don’t want to wake up and find out it’s just another Tuesday.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“Last Wednesday,” Sam admits.

“Sam…” Bobby looks exasperated. “You have to sleep. Look, let’s put this off until morning. You get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll take care of this thing.” Bobby’s eyes focus somewhere behind Sam. “Hey, Dean.”

Sam whirls around to see Dean unlocking the trunk of the Impala. “Dean, wake up!” he shouts, and hurls himself at his brother, slamming him against the trunk. Dean thrusts an elbow into Sam’s solar plexus and Sam crumples, but then Bobby is there, wrestling Dean to the ground. Dean’s head slams the pavement and then his face twists and he looks up at them. “Bobby?”

“I see your problem,” Bobby says, looking over at Sam.

“Next time, take my paperclips too,” Dean says with a tired grimace. “Bobby, you can get off of me now.”

Bobby lets Dean sit up. Dean is staring at Bobby’s chest, where the top button of his shirt has popped open.

“Bobby,” Dean says slowly, “Where did you get that amulet?”

Bobby looks down and lifts the amulet out of his shirt. “This? It’s just a good luck charm.”

Dean pulls out his own amulet. “Dr. Gusteau gave us these. For protection.”

The amulets are identical. Sam sits down next to them.

“I haven’t seen you wear that before, Bobby,” he says.

“I just got it a couple days ago. Not from your Dr. Gusteau—from a woman named Molly Eaton. She’s the person I was in town to see.”

“What does she do?” Dean asks.

Bobby looks uncomfortable. “It’s personal,” he says.

Dean grins. “You got a girlfriend?”

“No,” Bobby snaps.

“How have you been sleeping, Bobby?” Sam presses.

Bobby looks from Sam to Dean and back again. “It’s personal.”

“This Molly Eaton…what does she look like?”

Bobby sighs. “Short blond hair, kind of skinny…”

“Paintings of ducks on her walls?” Sam supplies.

“Dried flowers everywhere?” Dean adds.

Bobby presses a hand to his face. “How did you know that?”

“That’s Dr. Gusteau.”

“Molly’s not a lawyer; she’s a medium.”

“Why do you need a medium, Bobby?” Sam asks, but Dean suddenly looks as if he understands.

“Those dreams about your wife weren’t real,” he says softly. “Jeremy just preyed on your fears. There wasn’t any truth to them. She doesn’t hate you for what you did.”

“I know,” Bobby insists. “I just…I had to see her again, tell her I was sorry. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.”

“So she gave you this amulet.” Sam pulls his off his head. “We have to get rid of these things. This is probably how she’s targeting us.”

Bobby’s hand curls protectively around his amulet. “I thought you said it was the Trickster.”

“I don’t know what it is!” Sam explodes. “But obviously this Dr. Gusteau is not exactly trustworthy, and I don’t see how wearing these amulets will do us any good.”

“You boys think I’m stupid? I checked out this amulet before I wore it.” Bobby does not loosen his grip on the amulet. “It’s meant to focus energy, specifically dream energy. And that’s exactly what I was looking for when I got it from her.”

Sam studies his own amulet. “Dream energy?”

Dean looks exasperated. “I thought we learned our lesson about dreams with the dreamroot.”

Bobby chews on his lower lip. “When I dream, I see my wife.”

“It’s a dream, Bobby.”

“I know my own wife. It’s her.”

Dean grabs his own amulet tightly. “And my own dreams? Those aren’t real. They _can’t_ be real.”

“What does your wife say to you?” Sam asks softly.

Bobby shakes his head. “She just… _You_ know. She misses me, she wishes it hadn’t happened but she—but she forgives me. And we talk about what life would have been like if she were alive.”

“Does she want you to join her?” Sam asks in that same even tone.

Silence.

“Your wife wouldn’t want you to kill yourself, Bobby.”

“I never said she did,” Bobby snaps, but he looks pale.

“How did you find out about Dr. Gusteau? Or Molly Eaton?”

“There was an advertisement online. She said she was a medium that worked with reuniting loved ones, and I know that’s what they all say, but somehow I knew she was the real deal.”

“So you came across the country to see her.” Sam looks lost in thought.

“I was looking for someone like her for a while. Even before that whole thing with the dreamroot. Molly Eaton sounded perfect.”

Dean and Sam exchange looks. “I know what you mean,” Sam says. “So she finds something you’re obsessed in, pretends to have exactly what you want, and then when you show up, she has you destroy yourself?”

“Sort of like a siren,” Dean offers. Bobby and Sam look at him and he looks a little defensive. “She lures us here to our deaths. It sounds like a siren to me.”

“There isn’t exactly too much water around here,” Sam says dubiously.

“Well most sirens hunt sailors, don’t they?” Dean shrugs. “This one hunts…hunters.”

Realization dawns on Sam’s face. “Hunters. Like David Grandis and the others.”

“In the original lore, sirens weren’t limited to the sea, even though they lured sailors,” Bobby says, looking thoughtful. “They were bird-like creatures that lived in flowery meadows.”

“She’s certainly got the flowery bit down,” Dean says.

Bobby nods. “It sort of fits.”

“Then how do we kill a siren?” Sam asks.

“Dunno,” says Bobby. “There’s a lot of lore, but nothing on killing them, really. Odysseus defeated them by not giving in to their song.”

Sam looks at Dean and Bobby, both of whom are holding their amulets around their necks.

“I think the first step is destroying these amulets.”

“That could warn her that we’re coming,” Dean says.

“Or maybe you could just kill yourself in your sleep. That would help,” Sam snaps. He reaches out for Dean’s amulet and Dean’s eyes flick to his outstretched hand, an animalistic move that gives Sam pause.

“Sam, what if these dreams aren’t fake,” Dean says.

“You mean, am I really a demon?”

Dean’s eyes dart to Sam’s face and Sam uses that second to grab the amulet and yank. The cord breaks and Dean grabs for it but Sam jerks back, falling on his ass. They stare at each other.

“We’re going to burn these now,” Sam says carefully. “Okay?”

“It’s not a good idea,” Dean says in a low voice.

“Well then I’ll just hold on to it. We can destroy it after we destroy her.”

After a pause, Dean nods. He gets to his feet and goes to the trunk of the Impala. “So, salt and burn then?”

“Should do the trick,” Bobby says, getting up with a lot less grace than Dean. Sam stands as well, dusting himself off.

“Here, Sam, catch,” Dean says, and Sam automatically looks up. The blast of rocksalt from the shotgun catches him square in the chest like a punch and he jerks back, too shocked to catch his balance. He slams backwards into Bobby. Bobby catches him and before he has time to frame a word of thanks, Bobby rips the amulet out of his hand and shoves him away. He lands on one hip, rolls painfully onto his side as the Impala starts up and Bobby moves past him. Two car doors slam.

The Impala roars away.

##

Dean grips the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and thinks, _I just shot Sam_. He is strangely giddy, almost on the verge of hysteria. _I just shot Sam. What the hell is going on?_

Bobby fastens his seatbelt and leans against the door. “Wake me when we get there,” he mumbles. Dean nods tightly. He hasn’t consciously thought about it but he knows suddenly that he is driving to Dr. Gusteau’s house. To end this, perhaps. Or maybe just to ask her if what he’s seeing is the truth.

The road hums under the wheels of the Impala. With Bobby asleep, there is no one to keep watch if he falls asleep at the wheel and drives off the road, or pulls over and gets a gun from the trunk. The shotgun is on the seat between him and Bobby but he can’t exactly shoot himself with that.

He’ll just have to make sure that he doesn’t fall asleep.

Dean has driven while exhausted in the past. When Sam went to college and Dean and his father split the hunting between them, more than once Dean had found a need to drive despite his exhaustion. He cranks down his window to let in a cold breeze, and turns on the air vents to direct cold air into his face. Metallica is already in the tape deck. He cranks up the volume and presses play.

“Sorry, Bobby,” he adds as Bobby jerks awake.

Bobby mutters something and leans back against the door, his eyes drifting closed again. Dean sinks his foot down on the gas.

His cell phone vibrates against his hip. He pulls it out of his pocket and flips it open without looking at the name on the screen.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I guess we’re even with shooting each other with shotguns.”

“Where are you going?” Sam asks.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m going to take care of everything.”

“Dean—” Sam’s voice cuts off as Dean flips his phone shut. Dean turns it off tosses it on the seat next to the shotgun. At the end of the street, Dr. Gusteau’s house comes into view.

“We’re here,” he says, accelerating.

##

It takes Sam five minutes to get Bobby’s car running. He moves painfully and does not look forward to taking out the rocksalt later. He can feel the grains embedded in his chest as one flat wall of pain. He tries Dean’s phone again but it’s off now.

If Dean isn’t going to Dr. Gusteau’s house, then Sam has no idea where he is headed. He pulls the car onto the street.

##

Dean makes short work of the locked door of Dr. Gusteau’s building, and he takes the stairs quietly. Bobby is right behind him, gun out. At the top of the stairs, Dean presses his ear to the door and listens. Faintly, he can hear a radio playing: a woman is singing. He turns the handle and the door opens.

His opponent chalks his cue, staring at him across the pool table. _It’s your turn._

Dean holsters his gun and moves into the room. He picks up his own cue, studying the table. _This is just a dream._

 _That doesn’t mean it’s not the truth._ His opponent smiles.

 _I’m not going to kill myself._ Dean holds his pool cue but doesn’t make a move.

 _When it comes time, Sam is going to sacrifice a thousand innocents just for your life. I’m not surprised that you’re prepared to do the same. After all, Dean._ The opponent smiles. _You’re worth it, aren’t you?_

 _Sam wouldn’t kill people just for me,_ Dean insists.

One eyebrow arches. _Ask him about his second Wednesday._

##

Bobby lets out a deep breath that he didn’t know he was holding as he steps into the room. _Alice_ , he says.

 _You came back!_ Alice replies with a sunny smile. _You left so suddenly._

 _It was the telephone, and then I had to help some friends of mine,_ Bobby replies. _But I’m back now._

She moves toward him, her eyes lowered coquettishly, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders. _Back for good?_

Bobby holds out his hands to her and she takes them in her own. _Baby, I don’t know._

Her smile fades and her hands let go of his. _I should have known not to get my hopes up._

_I’m sorry, it’s just…I have responsibilities, Alice. I have people who rely on me._

_Who? Those Winchester boys? They’re headed for a bad end, and you and I know it. If they could think for themselves and take care of themselves, maybe they could reverse it, but not if you’re digging them out of every hole._ Her eyes are sad. _I don’t want to give you an ultimatum, Robert. But if you don’t love me enough to come with me now, I don’t think I can wait around here for you._

 _Alice._ Bobby recaptures her hands. _I love you more than life itself._

 _Then prove it,_ she replies.

##

The Impala is parked at Dr. Gusteau’s, and Sam barely shuts Bobby’s truck off before he is out of the car and heading for the door. The front door is unlocked and half open. He can see shards of wood on the landing. He takes the stairs two at a time, drawing his gun.

In the doorway, he stops.

Dr. Gusteau is bent over Bobby, who lays on the floor in a dead sprawl. Dean is crumpled nearby.

“Get away from him!” Sam barks, his gun aimed at the woman’s head. She doesn’t even look up. He pulls the trigger.

The bullet catches her in the jaw and tears it clean off in a cloud of feathers. Her head snaps up to glare at him and where her jaw was, Sam sees the elongated beak of some sort of vulture. He squeezes the trigger twice more and takes out her eye and the top of her head, but underneath there is only bird.

The creature rises to her feet and cocks her head at him with an angry screech. Sam hesitates, staring at her. She appears to be unhurt.

“Get away from them,” Sam says again. “Let them go.”

She cocks her head to one side, peering at him with her one bird eye. Her throat works and then a clear, warm note of music spills out of her beak, like a woman singing.

Sam feels his arms lowering, his grip easing on the gun, but he’s just so tired he can’t hold it up anymore. The burn of the rock salt in his chest is fading. It would be so nice to sleep. He hasn’t slept in days.

An image flashes behind his eyelids— _Dean, pinwheeling impossibly into the air from the impact of the car._ Sam jerks his eyes open, flinching back, his gun swinging up again.

The siren is standing closer to him now, trilling arpeggios into the air.

“Let us go,” Sam hisses, but he can’t suppress a yawn. Even the wooden floor looks comfortable to lie down on. He could just close his eyes for a minute. Then he can get back to the task of killing this bitch.

 _Dean, his face swollen and purple, clutching at his throat and trying to suck air into his lungs, his eyes bugging out of his head._ Sam claws his way back to reality.

As much as a bird can have expression, the creature before him looks startled. Sam points the gun at her face and pulls the trigger once, not because it will help but rather because it will make him feel better. The impact of the bullet forces her back a step and more feathers fly, but if anything, her singing increases.

_The gored remains of Dean’s face where the dog’s jaws have twisted and ripped._

Sam pulls the trigger again and keeps pulling the trigger until the gun clicks empty.

##

 _Wanna know the real kicker, Dean?_ The opponent puts down his pool cue. _Wanna know the twist?_

 _What,_ Dean whispers.

_Your deal is going to force Sam to take his place as the demons’ Golden Boy. This was Azazel’s plan all along. Jack killing Sam, you bringing him back and selling your soul for the privilege—it’s all been leading up to this, Dean._

Dean realizes that his hand is on the handle of the gun in his holster. The opponent’s eyes lower to the gun and his smile widens.

_All that and the end of the world, too. Just for you._

Dean wakes up.

##

The three of them are sprawled on the floor. There are feathers everywhere. Dean coughs and sits up.

“What the fuck happened?” he says.

Bobby shifts and rolls over, blinking up at the ceiling. Dean leans over Sam and shakes him.

“Sam?”

Sam opens his eyes and stares at Dean. “Oh, thank God,” he says.

“What happened?”

Sam shakes his head in confusion. “I don’t know. She was singing and trying to put me to sleep and I just keep shooting her…”

Bobby yawns. “Guess you resisted her pull long enough to weaken her.”

Sirens sound in the distance. Sam sits up.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

##

At the interstate, they part ways with Bobby, who is heading back to his motel room to pack up. Dean insists on driving.

“You need to sleep, dude. Seriously.” Dean looks over his shoulder to merge into the traffic. “And if you don’t get to sleep, we’re going and getting you sleeping pills.”

“I can’t.” Sam rests his head against the window, feeling the vibration of the car through his skull. “It’s not about the siren at all.”

“It’s about all your Tuesdays. I know.” Dean spares him a glance. “Shit, Sammy, I just watched you die _once_ and I sold my soul. If I had to watch you die again and again…”

“We still have to salt and burn those amulets,” Sam interrupts. “Or do you think you’ll shoot me again if I try?”

“I’m all for burning those amulets.” Dean reaches over to the radio and turns it on low. “The sooner the better. Want to pull over now?”

“Later,” Sam says tiredly. “Let’s get out of this town first.”

“Agreed.” Dean fiddles around with the music a little more, chewing on his lower lip, obviously debating something. “I just…”

“Yeah?”

“Was there a second Wednesday?”

Sam meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. “What makes you say that?” Sam asks slowly.

Dean immediately shakes his head. “In one of the dreams I had…”

“No,” Sam interrupts. “There was just one Wednesday.”

“Okay,” Dean says. Sam watches him for a while longer, then leans his head on the window again and tries to sleep.


End file.
